Goldfinches and flocks of grimacing, t-shirted cyclists return to The Garden State.  Daffodils grace lawns and tables.  Green, smiles, and more sunshine joyously invade our routine.  ‘Tis Spring time and Easter Celebrations rise bumptiously before us.

On April 16 (The Sunday that in 2017 follows the first full moon after the March 21 Equinox), Christians will dress up their bodies and spirits and celebrate the rising of Jesus Christ, and His conquering Death to bring life and love to all humankind.  Songs of joy will fill churches and get carried out into the street in folks’ hearts.  Wow!  Even if you are unfamiliar with any Christian theology, something just tells you that you really would like a piece of that.  Rebirth – New Hope – Inspire (breathe in) some glorious and brand new lease on life.

Over the past four decades, business has gotten increasingly global and increasing competitive.  Workers and executives alike seek any advantage to make themselves a little sharper, more able, and more on the ball.  The paunchy old business person is being hip-checked aside by the young, gleaming-eyed guy who spends hours in the gym and hires a personal nutritionist.  And for the past decade another personal advantage has dawned and gained a slow, grudging acceptance in the workplaces of the world:  Spirituality.  It is an appropriately sanitized term for the belief that some greater force dwelling outside and within us is present.   Business pundits now nod, “Yeah, there really is something to this power of personal faith.”

As it has for a score of centuries, the particulars of the Easter story and its rituals of celebration will come under the ceaseless scrutiny and debate.  But for those many folks who may currently be orbiting the fringes of the spiritual sphere, wondering if there lies any benefit, allow me to proffer one brief consideration.  Man may be, as Protagoras claimed, the measure of all things.  But he is not the answer to all things.

Any honest person readily realizes that she or he just doesn’t possess the power, all the time, to handle all the hardballs thrown at them by the whimsical hands of Fate.  Certainly would be a comfort to feel that it’s not just me fighting my way alone out there.  No, no.  You’re not admitting defeat; it’s just that now you would welcome some backup reserves – some additional power to face this day’s doings.  Perhaps there lies within some divinely planted seed that, with a little help, may be brought to fruition.  And perhaps, you could really use  a little assistance with the cultivation of what’s been within and without all along.  And perhaps calling on such assistance might help you rise to a bit of rebirth.  You know, like you see in the faces of those folks celebrating Easter.  Just a thought.

Wishing you every success,

– Bart Jackson

The art and glory of war may be found writ large in books – and endlessly echoed by non-combatants.  But the truth about war lies wounded in the surgeon’s tent:  “Doctor, will I see again?”  “Doctor, will I walk again?”  Generals may glitter, but soldiers only bleed.

We need not belabor that war is a tool for profit, launched by shadowy creatures seldom seen.  We all know that war’s true causes are deliberately, and usually effectively, blurred by its makers.  Yet this does not mean we have to deceive our very own selves as to what we are getting into.  We need not veneer hate with the label of patriotism; deem murder as glory; or most dangerously, envision the slaughter of armed and explosive combat as some sort of fist fight that displays our personal courage.

Within the past 2 years, 470,000 Syrian civilians and soldiers have died in war.  And the reason for my nation’s exterminating more stands unclear to me.  Does anyone hold an explanation?

Plopsicles of heavy snow thudded around us flack-thick as the smooth-skinned beech yielded up yestereve’s snow from their branches.  The great thing about cross-country skiing is that you’re pumping out such a sweat that you’re always warm.  Even greater, of course, is the beauty.  Peaks, culverts, and copses that will soon become foliage jammed and unreachable, now, under this pristine blanket invite you in to wander at will through their most private passages.

Gliding ‘twixt the sylvan patriarchs which pillared aloft the impossibly blue sky, we could not help but stop and stare.  Plunging stabs of snowy ice cast back the sun in flickering sheens.  Our jaws went slack at this wonder.  Yet pause not too long; skis that that overstay their rest will cake with wet slush, turning progress to a plod.  (There’s a life lesson in there somewhere.)

For Lorraine and me, this day – March 21, Spring’s first dawning – offered a final hurrah before poles, boots, skis, and snowshoes would be stowed away with the memories, before the paddles and tandem bike took their place.  This year had been a surprising delight with fall after fresh fall of dry, powdery snow.  (You know it’s a good winter when you can ski the Jersey Pine Barrens and loose yourself in its endless backways.)  But today was an unforeseen dividend.  Just the day before, conversation had turned to peas and pruning.  This final snowfall was a gift so beautiful it must be seized.

For miles Lorraine and I went around the woods and lake of the Plainsboro Preserve, previously home to a sand quarry plant which made the terra firma beneath the Meadowlands arenas.  Startling deer in heavy winter dress, gliding red tail hawks, and brush-bustling songbirds, we shushed our way through Eden.  One last time.

Finally, after batting the snow off the skis and clambering into the car, we headed home.  As we drove, the radio announced, “This is a good day to stay indoors.  The roads are slippery with melting snow….winter warning conditions are in effect.  So don’t go anywhere unless you have to….”

Lorraine smiled at me with that knowing wisdom she possesses, “Oh yes.  You can be too careful.”

Wishing you every Joy,

– Bart Jackson